


Blowing Bubbles

by CherryMilkshake



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Massage, Pre-Relationship, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 22:17:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3706129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryMilkshake/pseuds/CherryMilkshake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian has a bubble of hope in his chest, and Inquisitor Adaar is not very good at making it go away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blowing Bubbles

**Author's Note:**

> If you want Inquisitor reference, [here you go](http://40.media.tumblr.com/01e3a158ca709b9227a28c0a6d1f58b1/tumblr_nsmpz7sxaw1qh2pnuo1_1280.jpg).

Dorian was very fond of his alcove. It was generally well-lit, the other regulars of the area were either amicable or ignorable (even if the Tranquil was unnerving), and there were always new books being added to the shelves, between his research, Cassandra’s, the mages’, and Leliana’s.

Generally, if one were looking for Dorian Pavus, the library alcove was stop number one.

However, if Dorian Pavus were being found, he would prefer more warning than a soft murmur of his name just inches from his ear. He jumped, biting down a most indignant yelp, spinning quickly to find himself face-to-face with the hulking Vashoth who somehow always managed to remain unseen until he decided to make himself known. Said Vashoth was smirking a little.

Dorian clutched at his frantic heart. “My dear Inquisitor, I wish you wouldn’t take such pleasure in frightening me. If I begin to gray from the stress, I will be sorely vexed.”

The Inquisitor, Bernart, or also known as Ashaad, smiled mischievously. Dorian hated that smile a little. It made those soft gray cheeks dimple and flush in a way that was far too cute on a man of that size and vigor. “I wouldn’t take such pleasure if you didn’t scare quite so nicely,” he said innocently. His voice, soft and Ferelden-accented, always sounded strange coming out of his mouth.

Dorian fixed his shirt for want of a distraction from thinking more about that mouth. “My completely understandable levels of scaring aside, how can I help you, Inquisitor?”

Bernart made a face. “I’d prefer you not call me that. It makes me sound pretentious. And I was wondering if you would like to come with me to the Fallow Mire to investigate those missing soldiers. We leave tomorrow.”

“I have no objections to that,” Dorian said, smirking a little. Any chance to watch that broad back in motion under supple, dark leather.

Bernart smiled, widely and innocently. “Excellent. I always feel a little better knowing you have my back. Solas is… a little strange, and I’m never quite sure if Madame Vivienne likes me or not.”

“I think most people here feel the same way,” Dorian said with a small laugh.

Bernart smiled, then frowned as he rolled his head from side to side.

“Something wrong?” Dorian asked.

Bernart reached up to rub at the junction of neck and shoulder. “I think I pulled something or slept strangely. My shoulder has been bothering me all day.”

Dorian felt a spark of inspiration. “I’ve been known to give a decent massage in my day. Care to indulge?”

Bernart blushed, his nose and ears turning prominently red. It nurtured that little growing bubble of hope that maybe Dorian’s affections were not entirely unwanted. “That actually sounds great,” he said. “Um, I need to go talk to Blackwall, but could you meet me in my quarters in about 20 minutes?”

Dorian agreed and twenty minutes later, he was standing in the Inquisitor’s quarters, which were sort of ridiculously nice, considering the circumstances. He was standing on the balcony when a prickly feeling of being watched raised the hair on the back of his neck mere instants before Bernart said his name.

He turned and smirked at Bernart’s exaggerated expression of disappointment. “I guess you sensed me that time,” he grumbled.

Dorian chuckled. “Are you ready?” he asked.

“More than you know,” Bernart said wistfully. “Where do you want me?”

“On the bed, if possible. I wouldn’t want to hurt  _my_  shoulders trying to relieve yours.”

Bernart chuckled and went inside, flopping himself facedown on the bed, turning his head to the side to watch Dorian approach. His ears were luminous.

“Mind if I remove your outer shirt?” Dorian asked. “It’s quite thick.”

“Ah yes. One moment.” Bernart wriggled around, undoing the buttons and pulling his arms in to free them from the sleeves.

Dorian lifted the now-loose shirt from his back and set it aside. He… hadn’t been expecting that there would be nothing underneath, not even a shift or undershirt. Maker, those shoulders were gorgeous, all smooth skin and curving musculature.

And he got to touch them. Praise the Maker.

Dorian briefly considered straddling his waist—it would be the best angle after all—but instead opted to kneel beside him on the bed.

Bernart groaned softly when Dorian found the knot that felt like the source of the problem. Experimentally, Dorian pressed on it harder, using the mound at the base of his thumb, leaning into it. He began to move his hand in small circles, keeping on the pressure, and the noises this produced were absolutely  _sinful_.

Bernart had his eyes shut, his mouth open, redness in his cheeks and ears, and suddenly his shoulder wasn’t the only thing under pressure. Dorian used his free hand to try and subtly adjust his pants, suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling of being an unwanted voyeur.

He finished the rest of the massage though, because what else would he do?

Bernart opened his eyes as Dorian leaned back onto his feet. He looked post-orgasmic, which didn’t help Dorian’s situation at all. “Mm… Thank you, Dorian. I didn’t know how much I needed that.” He closed his eyes again for a few moments. “Oh!” They shot open and he rolled over to grab at his shirt. “As I was coming back from the stables, Mother Giselle gave me a letter from your father.”

Well, that successfully killed any lingering sexual tension. “From my father?”

Bernart, suddenly all business, nodded and sat up, digging it out from an inner pocket of the shirt, holding it out for Dorian to read. “Mother Giselle wanted me to somehow trick you into meeting him, but from what you said, you left under… difficult circumstances. I would be a poor friend to foist that sort of meeting upon you.”

Dorian stared at the words on the page, the familiarity of the handwriting somehow unsettling him just as much as the contents. Dorian looked up from the letter, watching Bernart rebuttoning his shirt, his pale hazel eyes fixed on Dorian in naked concern. His heart fluttered, that bubble of hope swelling just a little more. “Would you go with me?” He swallowed, quickly dialed back on the vulnerability. “In case it turns out to be a trap, of course, and heads need to be knocked.”

Bernart grinned. “I  _am_  good at knocking heads.” But his expression softened into something more genuine. “I would be honored to go with you.”

Dorian smiled, hoping the relief wasn’t too evident on his face. “Well then, after missing soldiers, I guess we’ll be heading back to Redcliffe.”

“Hopefully without any more time mishaps.”

Dorian chuckled. “Shh, don’t say it too loudly. I’ve no need to tempt fate.”

Bernart grinned, widening his eyes with feigned innocence. “But Dorian,  _what could possibly go wrong_?”

The mage jumped up to cover his mouth, knocking them both back onto the bed, and the room was filled with laughter.


End file.
